


Pleas Made to the Night

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blood and Injury, But there are still swords!, Canon-Typical Violence, Fae & Fairies, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Sound Engineer Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: Despite how much Jaskier talked, he very rarely spoke about himself. Geralt was sure he spoke more about his fellow Witchers more than Jaskier talked about his family. Sure, Geralt could name the other man’s favourite food, his preferred wine, all the instruments he could play, where he’d gone to school, the names of his friends, and dozens of other small details. But he was beginning to realize that maybe he didn’t know Jaskier as well as he thought.Perhaps he didn’t know anything about the man that spoke so much and yet said so little.------Or, everybody keeps secrets, including two best friends who've known each other and lived together for over ten years. But Jaskier's past has come back to kill him. Is it too late to come clean?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 221
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Pleas Made to the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritingWithMeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingWithMeg/gifts).



> Hello! 
> 
> This is my [@thewitchersecretsanta](https://thewitchersecretsanta.tumblr.com/) gift to [@omgitsnutmeg](https://omgitsnutmeg.tumblr.com/). Thank-you for the ideas, and your patience and I hope you like it!

The blade of the knife caught the light of the moon. It glinted off the bright silver length as it was flicked upwards. Jaskier tried to dodge out of the way, but his opponent was faster and he had to bite back the shocked gasp as the burning pain raked down his side. His assailant danced out of the way of his returned thrust, white teeth flashing in the dark. 

“Your death is assured, Julian. No sense prolonging it,” the black-clad figure taunted him. They darted in again, trying to strike at his unguarded side, seeking to slow him down, bleed him like a stuck pig. 

Jaskier gritted his teeth, gripping the pommel of his sword harder and parrying the strike deftly. It seemed his past was catching up with him. This was, regrettably, sooner than he had expected. It meant a shift in dynamics; someone seeking to get rid of loose ends. The politics that had once ruled his life were coming back to haunt him in the form of this shadowed assassin. 

Or someone had recognized him. That was a possibility. There was still the bounty on his head to consider. Regardless, the assassin dancing in front of him needed dealing with first before he could start speculating about his future state of affairs. 

That wasn’t going to be a problem. He grinned sharply as the carefully created glamour that hid his true nature parted slightly. Moonlight now reflected unnaturally off eyes that tracked the black-clad figure unerringly, whilst shoulders broadened and arms elongated. 

To the assassin’s credit, they didn’t falter as they pushed the attack, darting in and out of Jaskier’s range. However, Jaskier was now much faster. And despite the assassin’s obvious skills, they were soon panting from exertion, bleeding from half a dozen cuts on legs and arms and hands. They backed off warily, leaning against the wall of the alley. Jaskier let them go, watching as they backed away. 

“Not as defenceless as you were told, am I?” Jaskier’s voice was rough, even to his own ears, but neutral, devoid of emotion. “That’s okay. You’re not going to live long enough to tell anyone else.” He watched in grim satisfaction as the assassin’s knees buckled underneath them, dragging them down to the mud and trash-strewn ground. He shook his head as he carefully re-sheathed his sword, tucking it under his arm and thereby back under his glamour. “If you’re going to fight one of us, you should really know what you’re up against. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” 

The black-clad figure slumped the rest of the way to the pavement and went still. 

Jaskier sighed. He twitched his fingers, pulling his glamour back overtop of himself, feeling it settle like a warm coat. He waited another moment, to make sure no one else was coming for him, before approaching the mouth of the alley and joining the stream of humanity making their way through the city. 

He checked his phone to find two text messages and one missed call. The call was from his friend Essi, but she’d also texted him, asking if he was free for drinks and a movie. The other text was from his roommate, asking when he’d be home for dinner. His lips pulled up into a slightly sad smile. Fingers flew over the keys as he denied Essi and confirmed his roommate. Staying home tonight would reinforce a sense of normalcy. At least for a short while.

The ache in his bones told him that after tonight, it might be a long time before anything felt normal again.

The old term for his kind was knight, though it had morphed in the vernacular to enforcer sometime in the twentieth century. Elves touched with the blood of Fae, they were faster, stronger, brutal creatures utilized by the Elven families to keep the peace.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and hurried along the sidewalk, dodging around other pedestrians. The apartment he shared with his best friend was only another five blocks away, and it allowed him to push away the encounter with the assassin and focus instead on more mundane things. Like how he was going to explain to Geralt why he was so late. Or that he no longer had his guitar case. Or the obvious stab wound in his side. 

Jaskier shook his head, smiling tightly. Geralt was usually oblivious to most of the shady things he got up to on a day to day basis; one little flesh wound wasn’t going to phase him. He hoped. 

Turning the corner onto the residential street where their townhouse was situated, Jaskier made a decision as he approached the front door. Standing on the stoop, ostensibly searching his pockets for his keys, he let his glamour drop just enough to pull on his innate healing abilities. The wound on his side flared ice cold for a few seconds before the edges sealed themselves back together. It was as if nothing had ever marred the flesh. The skin was pale and flawless once again. 

His clothes still bore traces of his blood, but he could dump those in the washer positioned strategically in the tiny room behind the front door. Taking a deep breath, he turned the key in the lock and stepped into his house. 

***

There were six Witchers left in the world. As a rule, they avoided interacting with humanity. They kept mostly to themselves. They avoided mainstream media. They still took contracts, killed monsters, protected the world as best they could, but only a select few agencies knew they existed. And they were only called upon in the most dire of situations. 

Which was part of the reason Geralt had found himself exceptionally bored leading into the twenty-first century. His skills were no longer something in constant use, so they began to atrophy. In an attempt to stop that from happening, and with his fellow Wolf School Witchers, he’d opened an exercise studio, of sorts. It taught people the uses and merits of swords, poleaxes, glaives - the list was nearly endless. If it had a pointy bit or sharpened edge, chances were you could find someone willing to teach you how to use it at Wolf Weapons Training. 

Geralt surprised himself by being a patient teacher. His youngest brother, Lambert, surprised no one by being the least patient but the most diverse in skills. In the past year, he’d even started introducing archery into the curriculum. Eskel, though intimidating to look at, all solid, muscular angles, and scars that bisected the right side of his face, took care of basic footwork as well as the day-to-day running of the studio. Vesemir, their original weapons’ master centuries ago, fit easily back into that role. His was a gruff sort of instruction, suited more towards the advanced classes, who could take forceful correction and minimal praise. 

All in all, the Witchers were proud of their enterprise. It allowed them to keep a relatively low profile, keep their own skills sharp, and be a part of society. Because one of the things that had really killed a lot of the Witchers was loneliness. Being an outcast for so long was devastating to their psyche. It was a lesson learned too late for so many, and exacerbated by the lessons taught to Witchers when they first set out on the Path - that they would forever be apart from humanity. And in those first few centuries, humanity tended to not let them forget it. 

As their numbers dwindled, the world forgot about them to the extent that they could blend back in. And whilst they’d always hold the scars of their past, for those that had survived so long, it was a balm to move amongst humans without recognition. Without scorn or derision. 

Tonight, however, Geralt was sprawled on the couch of the townhouse he shared with his friend, Jaskier, reading a book dedicated to the history of salt, and wondering if he should order in something to eat now or wait till his wayward roommate got home. He reached blindly for his phone where it lay on the coffee table beside him, finishing the last bit of the chapter while he simultaneously texted Jaskier to ask when he’d be home. As he closed the book, he looked up, frowning and blinking in the dimly lit room. It was much later than he thought. The sun had already fled the sky, leaving behind only its rosy glow reflected against the clouds. Jaskier should have been home a few hours ago. 

He sat up, dropping his book facedown on the table, heedless of the bent pages as he looked properly at the time displayed on his phone’s surface. It was nearly seven. Jaskier worked at a recording studio about a twenty minute walk away from their home. His last session was supposed to end at three thirty. Given time to finish up, chat with his coworkers, check his office and emails, and then head out, he should have been home no later than five. 

So where was he? 

Just as Geralt stood to head to the front door, worry making his brow furrow, his phone chimed. 

**Jaskier:** _Running a bit late. Go ahead and order from that Thai place. You know what I like. Home soon!!_

Well, that sounded like Jaskier. But why didn’t he text earlier? Maybe he’d gotten caught up in something? Wouldn’t be the first time, but he was usually good at telling Geralt when he’d be late. He knew his friend worried. Not for the reasons he suspected - Geralt was always a bit fearful of some enemy or other figuring out who Geralt was and then using his friend against him. It wouldn’t be the first time his friends had gotten hurt because of him. 

And if the feelings that dwelt in his chest suggested more than just friendship, he wrapped them up and buried them as deep as he could. Putting Jaskier in danger wasn’t worth subjecting him to his love.

Instead of dwelling on it, Geralt pulled up the food delivery app on his phone and placed their usual order before heading into the kitchen and emptying the dishwasher. He was thinking about what excuse Jaskier would give for running so late, and his lip twitched at the extravagant story the other man would obviously tell, when his medallion vibrated harshly against his chest. 

Geralt paused, glasses clutched in one hand from where he’d pulled them from the top rack of the dishwasher, trying to concentrate on where the magical signature was coming from. The medallion thrummed once more before going still.

He heard the scrabble of keys in the lock. The familiar honeysuckle and mint smell of his roommate came through the opening door, but on the tail end of it was something that had him nearly dropping the glasses in his hand in his haste to put them down on the counter and run to the front door. 

Blood. Jaskier’s blood. Fresh, copper bright, like it had just been spilled. 

He skidded to a stop in the hallway, staring at Jaskier, who looked startled to see him so close as he opened the door. They stared at one another for several breaths before Jaskier recovered first. 

“Hello! I’m home! Let me tell you, that was a horror show of a day if I ever had one. We had three sets of clients and _of course_ the first group ran over time so that put the whole schedule behind. And then Priscilla wanted to discuss the finishing touches on an album that isn’t set to be released for at least another month. Like I have time to cater to her pet projects. Anyway - “ While he prattled on, Geralt watched as he kept his right side turned away from him, shucking off his hoodie and dress shirt and balling them up in his hands. The smell of blood still wafted up from the fabrics. Jaskier shut the front door, stepped briefly into the tiny utility room and threw his clothes into the washing machine, still talking about his day like nothing had happened, mentioning instead that he’d spilled coffee all over his clothes and wanted to wash them right away. 

He continued to talk as he went to walk past Geralt, but he caught Jaskier by the wrist, pulling him to an abrupt halt. This also had the side effect of stopping the flow of words.

Geralt stared at him for a moment before asking, quietly. “Did you get hurt? I thought I smelled blood.” Jaskier didn’t know he was a Witcher. Didn’t know about his enhanced senses, and certainly didn’t know that he could smell a lie. 

Which was why it was particularly difficult for Geralt not to wrinkle his nose and snarl back at him when Jaskier smiled and said, “What? No of course not! Unless I got a papercut I didn’t notice, but those things hurt like fuck, so I can’t see how I wouldn’t have noticed that.” 

“Hmmm. Are you sure?” Geralt suddenly hoped with all his heart that Jaskier would take the out. Would come clean. In the ten years they’d know each other, Jaskier had never once lied to him. Why would he do it now?

“I’m absolutely sure. Now, when’s dinner coming? I’m starving!”

Geralt let him go when he tugged his wrist away. The hollow feeling in his chest made him feel every year that weighed on his body. The ridiculously bubbly, incredibly irritating and endearing man, who Geralt was pretty certain didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, had lied to him. Why?

He turned the question over and over in his head as the evening wore on. Jaskier changed into clean clothes and joined him on the couch, still talking about his supposedly horrible day. Geralt let him pick something to watch when their food arrived, and only offered non-committal responses at the appropriate places in the conversation. He nodded when Jaskier yawned, telling him he was exhausted and heading to bed. Geralt turned off the television, picking up his book as a pretense as he waited for the other man to make his way up the stairs to his bedroom on the second floor. 

It took a few moments before the sounds of movement ceased and Geralt concentrated on the rhythm of Jaskier’s heartbeat, only standing when it slowed enough to indicate he was asleep. Being careful to make no noise - not that Jaskier would hear him anyway, the man slept like the dead - Geralt went into the utility room, lifting the lid on the washer and stopping its cycle. The water was still a light pink despite having nearly gone through the whole rotation. Over the smell of detergent and bleach, he could still detect blood. 

He let the lid close. There was obviously something going on, but Geralt wasn’t sure what it could be. He knew Jaskier wasn’t entirely human and his best guess was half-elven. He’d never pressed the man on his lineage; there was no reason to. Whilst not common, half-elves weren’t rare, so Geralt had shrugged it off, happy to have a roommate willing to put up with his odd work hours and not question when he sometimes left in the middle of the night. 

Despite how much Jaskier talked, he very rarely spoke about himself. Geralt was sure he spoke more about his fellow Witchers more than Jaskier talked about his family. Sure, Geralt could name the other man’s favourite food, his preferred wine, all the instruments he could play, where he’d gone to school, the names of his friends, and dozens of other small details. But he was beginning to realize that maybe he didn’t know Jaskier as well as he thought.

Perhaps he didn’t know anything about the man that spoke so much and yet said so little. 

*

The rest of the week was as normal as Jaskier could have hoped for. No one else came out of the woodwork to threaten him. The three clients he was working with all got their recordings done on time. Even Priscilla seemed mellow and calm, only asking him once to stay late for her project. He even had time to join Essi for dinner one evening, glad to catch up with his old friend and spend an evening forgetting everything else.

His heart still squeezed a little too painfully when he came home, watching his best friend’s small smile work its way onto his face while Jaskier chatted about nothing. He still had to tamp down the little sparks of affection that threatened to turn into an inferno inside him every time the other man growled at him. 

Being so close to the one he loved and not able to touch was nothing new. He’d been living with that knowledge for nigh on ten years. But if Geralt found out what he was, he couldn’t hope to keep him. So he pined from afar.

All of this meant it was unexpected that when he came suddenly awake in the small hours of Friday night, heart beating quickly and every sense on edge, he felt a sense of anger and dread wash over him. 

Someone was in his home. 

Letting the glamour slip ever so slightly, he listened intently. The night was quiet around him, but there was a very faint scratching sound coming from the hallway. Moving slowly, he flattened himself against the wall behind his door, pulling his sword out of its hiding place and readying it. He closed his eyes, letting his other senses spread out, glamour falling away just that little bit more as he tried to identify what was stalking him. 

Whoever wanted him dead was getting bolder.

The doorknob turned slowly. He braced himself, watching the door as it opened, peering through the crack in the doorframe to catch a glimpse of his assailant. Another black clad figure oozed into the room. Attention fixed entirely on the messy bed, comforter balled up in the middle like someone was still in it, the assassin was almost too late to block Jaskier’s strike. Almost.

The wrenching sound of metal on metal grated against Jaskier’s ears. He clenched his teeth as he bore down on the other, forcing his opponent to twist sideways to break his hold. The figure jumped out of the way of his swinging blade, nimbly landing on the window ledge and staring down at him, sword held out in front of them. 

Jaskier growled, low and menacing. “What are you doing in my home? How did you find it?”

A soft laugh answered him. “We followed your pet. Where you were hidden, difficult to find, he was not.” They cocked their head to one side, an oddly bird-like motion. “We were sent to give you a choice, _Julian_.”

He paused at the assassin’s words. A choice? That hardly seemed possible, given how he’d left the Elven courts so many years ago. But if the first assassin was a test, the second was a compromise. And the third… the third would be a decision. 

Pure instinct drove him, leaping out of the way of the second blade that sliced through the air where he’d been a moment ago. Another black-clad figure stood in the doorway, unnatural eyes the only part of them visible, reflecting the streetlights from outside. 

“ Of course. ‘We.’ I forgot you cannot lie.” Jaskier flicked his blade through the air, the bright metal singing as he readied it against the two opponents. 

The one on the window ledge - Compromise - clicked their tongue. “We may not lie. There is a choice.”

“And what might that be?” He glanced between the two figures, gauging his best course of action. There was no doubt he could kill both of them, but not without serious injury in such a close space. 

He also had his roommate to consider. How long before the noise woke him and he came to investigate. Jaskier’s heart felt heavy at the thought that Geralt might get injured because of him. 

Compromise dropped down lightly to the floor, blade pointed down as they circled the end of the bed to stand beside their counterpart - Decision. “We can offer you your position back in the court of your family. There is a new Earl now, and they would see you come home.”

It suddenly felt like ice water had been dumped down his spine. He’d wondered if there’d been a political shift, and here it was. His father was dead. That meant that he’d either been killed by a rival, or an accident had befallen him. The bastard was too stubborn to die of natural causes. His mind raced as he tried to figure out who would step up to lead the family in his father’s stead, and he hoped against hope he wasn’t right.

“Farrant?” he posed it as a question, though he knew the answer. But to his incredulous surprise, both assassins shook their heads. “No? Who then?”

Compromise glanced towards the window before looking back at him, as if gauging the length of the night. “Your lady mother has taken over the title and responsibilities.”

“Then you can tell her that I am quite content to stay where I am, away from the lot of them,” he grated out. Fuck he hated politics. The idea of his mother in charge was both terrifying and unnerving. She’d been the tactician for years; ruthless and quick to anger. 

She was one of the reasons he’d left. 

Decision made a disappointed noise and lifted their blade. “If you will not return, then you will need to be eliminated. The Earl does not like loose ends.” And there was the crux of the situation; the reason these two had been sent here in the dead of night. The shuffle in power meant that he wouldn’t be left in peace anymore. He was too great of an asset to the new Earl to be allowed his freedom any longer. 

Narrowing his eyes, he raised his blade in a fighting stance and waited for the first attack. Instead, the door behind the two would-be attackers burst open and a silver sword sliced down in an arc too quick for Decision to avoid. They were cleaved in two from shoulder to waist, the copper-bright scent of blood nearly overwhelming Jaskier’s senses. As Compromise turned to meet this new attacker, Jaskier took the opportunity to leap forward, impaling them on his blade. Their mouth opened in a silent scream before they dropped to the floor. 

The room was still as Jaskier looked down at the two bodies for a moment, heart pounding erratically in his chest. The glint of light on a silver blade brought his attention back to the new intruder and he stepped backwards quickly, out of its range. 

Geralt stood in the doorway, his own inhuman eyes reflecting the light coming through the window. Jaskier felt panic, confusion and resignation all at once. He lowered his blade slowly, watching as Geralt did the same. 

“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” he started. “But I feel like I might be owed one as well.”

“Hmm,” Geralt answered, glancing down at the bodies sprawled across the laminate flooring. “You’re an Elf.”

Jaskier moved his hand in a “sort-of” motion. “Half right. But you - “ He cocked his head to one side, looking at Geralt with all of his senses now, seeing the tell-tale cat-like eyes, the pointed teeth, the bone-white hair and skin. Geralt must have kept all this hidden under some kind of glamour as well, Jaskier’s own magical disguise blocking out his ability to sense it. “You’re a Witcher. I didn’t think they existed anymore. How exciting.” He took a step forward, but stopped as Geralt raised his sword. “I’m not a threat, Geralt.”

The newly-named Witcher furrowed his brow, deep suspicion carved into the lines of his face. “Aren’t you? One of the Elven courts sends two Shadows to kill you and you deem yourself not a threat? And if I’m half right about you being an elf, the other half clearly isn’t human either.”

Suddenly Jaskier realized what he must look like. He’d let the glamour slip enough that his pointed ears and luminescent eyes were visible, but it had also revealed overly long joints, making him taller and broader. He sighed.

“I know what this might look like, but I’m still me, okay?” He twitched his fingers, pulling the glamour close to his skin again, letting the unnatural elements fade away until he just looked like Jaskier: overworked sound engineer; Geralt’s roommate. “Please put your sword away and we can talk about this. Please?”

He watched as Geralt relaxed, slowly drawing himself up from his defensive position and tipping the point of his blade towards the floor. His breath came easier without the threat of the gleaming silver sword; he was resistant to the metal, but it still hurt like hell to be stabbed with one, and took much longer for the wounds to heal. 

Stepping around the bodies, he deposited his own sword on top of his desk and smiled at Geralt. “Thank-you.”

*

They sat at opposite ends of the long couch, staring into the darkness of the living room, neither wanting to start the conversation. Geralt’s mind was a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and half-remembered tales from old books. Upon seeing Jaskier’s true form, he’d nearly had the breath knocked from him. How could he be so very blind as to not see the complete inhumanity of the supposed man living with him for the past ten years? He’d known Jaskier wasn’t fully human but this - this was something else entirely. 

Finally the silence seemed to be too much for him and Jaskier spoke. “Look, I left the courts because I didn’t want to be forced to handle their dirty work anymore. I wanted my own life out from under their watchful eye, and I made a deal. I suppose it was naive to think that it would last forever.” He looked down at his hands where they were clasped tightly together in his lap. “It’s been decades since I’ve seen anyone else, and I’d hoped never to see them again.” He looked up, catching Geralt’s eyes with his own, staring intently as he said, “If I’d known they were coming, if I’d known they could come _here_ , I would have told you. Please believe that.”

Geralt considered his words carefully. “It seems we’ve both been keeping secrets.” This startled a laugh out of Jaskier and he felt his own lips twitch in a smile. “There are a few Witchers left, though we don’t let on. Very few people know of our existence, and we prefer to keep it that way.” He watched the other man nod, eyes wide. “I believe you, Jask, but there are two dead bodies upstairs and I have to know if there will be more coming after you.” He paused, brow furrowed in concentration as he thought about Jaskier’s words. Something the Shadows had said was tickling at his memories. The answer was just out of reach, just past the tip of his fingers. 

Jaskier hung his head. “I know. And I can’t say for certain.” He waved his hand dismissively to the stairs. “They’ll vanish in the morning light, though, so no need to worry about clean up.” His tone was light, almost jovial, but it fell flat. 

Geralt nodded. He knew about Shadows. Originally created by mages to carry out menial tasks, over the centuries they’d become sentient, learning how to build themselves. With their inability to lie and perfect memories, they’d become indispensable as couriers, scribes, advisors, and eventually branched out into more nefarious avenues of work. Like assassination. 

It wasn’t something that Geralt had made a study of, but Shadows and the Elven courts did fascinate him. Eskel was the one with the extensive library, but he’d spent some time learning about the politics and structure of the courts. The title of Earl, for instance, wasn’t hereditary and could be passed on by a vote if a successor wasn’t named. Of course, the Elves liked to keep those sorts of things within their families and had ways of discouraging outsiders from meddling.

Suddenly everything clicked into place. 

“You’re an enforcer,” he breathed, almost disbelieving the words as they left his mouth.

Jaskier flinched. “You’ve heard of us.”

“Hmmm. Every Witcher has.” When Jaskier looked up at him sharply, he shrugged. “You have to admit, enforcers are dangerous. It’s good to be prepared.”

“You’ve got a point. Though there aren’t many of us left, either. When I was last in court, it was less than a dozen.” He stood up suddenly, starting to pace around the confined space of the living room. “So, now you know you’re living with a dangerous monster, what are you going to do about it?” His tone was light, but Geralt could hear the apprehension, and when he took a deep breath, he could smell the anxiety and fear starting to permeate the air. 

“Nothing,” he said simply. “It’s not like anything has really changed. You’re still you - the same person I’ve known these past ten years.” His lips quirked up in a small smile. “I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I accused you of keeping things from me when I’ve done much the same.”

Jaskier laughed softly, pausing to look out the glass doors into the darkness at the back of the townhouse. Silhouetted against the light reflected from the moon, he looked coldly beautiful to Geralt suddenly. Like a sculpture made of ice. When he turned back to look at Geralt, his smile was warm and the Witcher shivered involuntarily. 

HIs thoughts were threatening to brew into another storm. He’d always been a little bit in love with his best friend but now, having seen him standing there, sword in hand, otherworldly physique causing him to look slightly taller and broader, and eyes shining just like Geralt’s own, ready to fight the two Shadows that had appeared in their home, the want and desire was harder to contain. He swallowed it down as best he could and met Jaskier’s gaze. 

The man was smirking at him. 

A new, cinnamon-sharp scent curled into the air as Jaskier walked slowly back to stand in front of him. He leaned forward over the Witcher until his hands were braced on the couch behind him. Geralt stared up at him, wide-eyed and unbelieving. 

“You know,” Jaskier’s voice was soft, just on the edge of his hearing, despite how close they were, and he shivered again. “My senses are just as good as yours, when I use them.”

Geralt sucked in a breath in surprise. “Oh,” he choked out, making Jaskier smile wider. He cleared his throat and tried again. “So, you can - “ Whatever he was going to say next was cut off in a garbled squeak as Jaskier dropped his head down to the juncture of his head and shoulder, breathing deeply. 

“Mmhmm.” He drew back to look Geralt in the eye. “This isn’t just adrenaline talking, right?” he sounded hesitant, anxiety spiking. 

It was Geralt’s turn to smirk as he reached up to cup Jaskier’s cheek, drawing him down into a kiss. He made a slightly undignified noise before dropping into Geralt’s lap, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and digging his knees into the cushions on either side of his thighs. Geralt let his hands roam where he’d only dreamed before: up Jaskier’s back and down his sides and over the tops of his thighs, all the while kissing him with a desperation borne of long buried attraction. Jaskier tasted with honeyed wine and smelled like cinnamon and rosemary. He’d let his glamour slip enough that Geralt could trace the edges of his pointed ears.

When they both finally pulled back enough to pant for air, foreheads pressed firmly together, Jaskier giggled. He was gripping tightly to the front of Geralt’s shirt, like he was afraid that if he let go, the other man would disappear. 

“What’s funny?” Geralt asked, smoothing one hand down his back over his sleep shirt. 

“This. All of this. Everything about this whole situation is funny. What… what do we do now?”

Geralt hummed, pondering his answer for a moment before using his other hand to tip Jaskier’s head up so he could look the other man in the eye. “I don’t know. But we’ll do it together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading!! Comments and kudos mean more fics, did you know?? <3


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